It was on the 16th of August, 1689, that the rendezvous was fixed on the wooded shores of the upper lake. The summer foliage was thick upon the forest, dense enough to hide the bands of men who came trooping there from all parts of Switzerland. They had to avoid the eyes not only of enemies, but of friends; the magistrates of Chillon and Aigle and Nyon were all on the watch to stop the passage of the Vaudois, as they had stopped the former attempt; but so quietly did they gather, so carefully did they keep their counsel, that the deep woods sheltered more than nine hundred men before the sun went down that day, and that without any suspicion having been excited amongst the Swiss.
Nine hundred men; a small army to attempt the conquest of the valleys, where the soldiers of Savoy were holding the passes, the bridges, and the forts. Undisciplined and ill-armed they were, without stores or means of transport, and without money. Well they knew the dangers that were before them, the privations and fatigues, the scorching heat of the low-lying lands, the bitter snows of the mountains; but in all that crowd of resolute men there was not one who quailed or shrunk.
‘Father,’ said Gaspard, standing by the old man’s side and watching the rugged face wistfully as he spoke, ‘Father, wilt thou not abide here, and let me strike thy blow as well as mine own? This arm is surely strong enough; and the thought of thee here, and my mother and Rénée yonder, will nerve it to double strength. Can it not be so? Wilt thou not return in peace to Geneva?’
Henri Botta shook his head; his words were few at any time, fewest when deeply moved.
‘Nay,’ he said; ‘the sons of the Vaudois are but a remnant now, each hand must do its best. Our cause is just. As Israel of old seized sword and buckler to keep hold of the land the Lord had given, so we will fight for the land where our fathers held high the standard of the truth which is in Christ Jesus, the land which is our rightful heritage.’
Gaspard would have urged his point yet further, but the old man would not hear; and in his heart the son knew how impossible it was that Henri should stay at Geneva, feebly trying in loneliness and longing-heartedness to accomplish the task that should earn his daily sustenance. The worn-out body would flag and utterly fail if he were left behind while the rest marched out to regain, if so it might be, their fatherland. And yet, worn and aged as he was, how was he to battle through the dangers that lay before Arnaud and his band?
The sun set; the sweet summer night was silent and serene; the water lapped the flowering rushes and broke in ripples against the rocky shore; a star or two shone in the gleaming sky, and beyond the far horizon-line the shimmer of moonlight was creeping up the east.
The men stood in groups among the trees, strange thoughts thronging about their hearts—a solemn sense of present peril, and eager longings to take the first step of their great enterprise; but they stood quietly for the most part. Such times as these are not times for talk, and the trouble-trained Vaudois had learned to possess their souls in silence.
It was two hours from midnight; presently a voice broke over the stillness—it was the leader, Arnaud, and his words were words of prayer. Kneeling there in the shadow of the trees, his eyes lifted to that growing eastern radiance, he poured out his pleadings—he asked for Divine help where other help was small and scant; for Divine guidance where a guiding hand would be so sorely needed; for Divine strength to fill the failing hands and brace the feeble knees. ‘Thou hast helped our fathers throughout the long ages, O God of our hope! help us still, according to Thine ancient promises. Be favourable to the simple and the needy, and preserve the souls of the poor; that our tongues may talk of Thy righteousness, and the mountains bring peace to Thy people!’
Gaspard heard the deep tones of his father’s ‘Amen.’ The old man’s face showed sharp against the gleam of the sky, and upon it was a look that silenced Gaspard’s fears. Henri Botta was asking for the strength that is greater than all human powers, the strength that is never denied. One sharp pang shot through Gaspard’s heart, and then the bitterness of his anxiety was gone for ever. Failure, death itself might be before them; but he felt, he knew, that God would care for His aged servant, and lift him safely to the shores of that country where the nations shall be healed.